Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Hell is loneliness for the abandoned. To finally have slept adjacent to another’s tender warmth and basked in the aura of together, what a lie. What a temporary fuck; blissed out senses in override like an old beat up sedan pressed too hard into fourth gear over the baked, naked heat of late Summer macadam. Felt good. Limbs loose and carelessness climbing to vertiginous heights over the sprawl of land growing best intentions, sprouting dreams, pollinating barren fields with hope. But death is constant, and rot its filthy companion, sinking oxygen rich teeth into the soft flesh of youth and tearing away imagination, naïveté, and willingness bite by bite. Gnashing in jaws fortified by the chemistry of failure, a strengthened muscle of acceptance that this is deserved; that the empty space beside isn’t punishment, but just fate directing her diseased script with heart-shattered actors. Dante couldn’t write in nine circles what each breath brings, each passing minute, each graying hair, new wrinkle and failing organ. All prove youth’s stumble was just as much a waste as an elder’s grace, the fires of passion fueling both.

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